Lady's Prerogative
by Dark Ride
Summary: After hearing the Hound's story about his scars, Sansa is moved to do something nice for him. An alternate version of the second day of the Hand's Tourney. Or: Sansa gives the Hound her favour to wear. Pre-ship.


This was inspired by my answer to the prompt Awkward in sansa_sandor LJ comm One Sentence Meme.

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Sansa had barely slept the previous night. The whole first day of the tourney had been weighing heavily on her mind - the excitement of the joust, the death of the Vale knight, the glitter of the evening feast. And above it all, overshadowing even Joffrey's gallantry at the beginning of the evening, was the Hound and his story. Sansa remembered how scared she had been at first, of his face and his anger and how that fear had turned into a sadness.

She had tried to imagine what it would have been like, to have your own brother try and kill you but she couldn't. Robb was her brother and Bran and Rickon, too and even Jon and she knew that they would rather die than let a harm come to her. Even her squabbling with Arya seemed harmless in comparison to what the Hound had shared with her. No wonder he hated his brother so much and that he was so angry all the time. She would be angry, too.

As Sansa rose and dressed for the second day of the tourney, she wondered if the Hound would manage to win the joust. He would deserve it, she decided, deserve some happiness in his life for once. As she hurried to break her fast with father, Arya and Septa Mordane, she resolved to cheer for the Hound when he would ride the lists.

She was disappointed to find out that Septa Mordane would not be able to accompany her to the tourney grounds, the previous night's indulgences taking its toll on the older woman. Sansa worried that she also might be prevented from attending due to not having an escort but her father agreed to keep her company on the gallery before he left his daughters to eat without him while he went on some sort of an errand. Arya was wolfing down her breakfast, for once ignoring Sansa who was having trouble eating, her stomach clenching nervously.

The enchantment of the first day was gone as her cart lumbered down from the Keep to the tourney grounds and Sansa decided that a walk around the field might settle her nerves better. She didn't understand why she was feeling this way now. The previous day was a dream come true, with the splendor she had always imagined the tourneys to have. And yet it was this morning that had her worried about the outcome. Was it because the previous day she had had no champion to cheer for?

Sansa paused, staring unseeingly at the trees in the distance. Was the Hound her champion? Well, she did wish for him to win, so in that sense, he was her chosen competitor. Then again, she touched the red rose pinned to her dress, Ser Loras had given her the special rose. But that was wrong, Sansa realized. Ladies chose their knights, not the other way around. While she felt grateful to Ser Loras for his gallantry, she had not asked him to represent her. She had not bestowed her favour on him nor on any other.

Sansa turned around, heading for the tents and pavillions housing the competitors. It was simple. She wanted the Hound to win and that made him her champion. She should give him a favour to wear, to mark her wishes in a tangible way. If only she had remembered it earlier. She had several ribbons that would have served that purpose quite well. All she had with her at the moment was the one in her hair and the spare one... Sansa smiled. She had gotten into a habit of carrying a spare ribbon ever since she was younger and still playing with her younger siblings who had had an annoying habit of pulling at her hair and undoing her braids. All she had to do now was to find the Hound and present him with her favour.

Sansa's enthusiasm dimmed as she recalled his scorn for the knigths and everything connected to them. He might laugh at her again, like he had last night. Could she face his possible mockery of her? He had even threatened her with death after he had escorted her to her rooms should she pass his words on to someone else. So why was she searching for his sigil on the shields in the field of tents?

The answer was simple. The Hound was scary and angry and mocking and unpleasant but underneath it all, he was also sad. She had heard that sadness in his voice as he had recounted his story to her. She had heard it and she had, in her heart, decided to do something about it. Expressing her belief he would win was the least she could do.

Sansa found the Hound's tent right next to those of the Kingsguard. Well, he was the crown prince's sworn shield, her betrothed's sworn shield. In a way, he was representing Joffrey as well which was all the more reason for Sansa to favour him, was it not? Affirming it to herself, she still had to steel herself as she called out, hoping her voice would carry inside.

"I beg your pardon, ser."

There were loud footsteps as the Hound pushed the flap aside roughly. Sansa took a hurried step backwards. He had his armour on already and it made him even bigger and more intimidating than he was the previous night. His face was twisted into a scowl that lessened only slightly when he looked at her.

"Lady Sansa," he rasped. "Are you lost?"

Sansa shook her head mutely before reminding herself she had a purpose for coming here.

"I wish to speak with you, ser."

He grimaced and didn't move from his spot, looking down at her with suspicion.

"I am no ser. And I don't think we have anything to talk about, girl," he added.

He was more polite than the previous night, Sansa noted and also more sober.

"It will not take long," she said and he sighed before he moved aside, letting her enter. He had most likely realized that the attention she would inevitably draw standing there was something neither of them wanted.

"If this is about the last night," he told her as he turned his back on her to check on the straps on his shield. "Then I'm sorry. I was drunk and angry and took it out on you."

Sansa was surprised by his apology. She could tell he was a man who apologized only rarely if at all and it touched her strangely that he would do so in regards to her.

"I understand," she told him softly. "But I am here about something else," she saw him turn to look at her and she held out a green ribbon shyly. "It would please me greatly if you would consent to wear my favour in today's joust."

She hoped she didn't sound too formal. The songs told of ladies giving their favours to their beloveds but the Hound was not hers. They had almost no connection and she had to make up something appropriate and could only hope he wouldn't take offense. At the moment, he was looking between the ribbon and her face, his scarred cheek twitching with some emotion as Sansa looked down quickly lest she became scared again.

"Is this your idea of a jape?" he asked at last, his voice rough and Sansa looked up.

"No," she assured him. "I want you to have this and win the tourney."

The Hound laughed at that and Sansa felt her cheeks burning. It was as she had feared. He was mocking her, he was mocking her offering and she was making a fool of herself.

"You are being unkind," she accused, her voice trembling and hinting at tears and the Hound's laughter stopped at that.

"By the gods," he said slowly. "You mean it, girl."

"Of course, I mean it," she said, willing that tremble to stop before her tears fell. She swallowed twice and looked up. He stood closer to her, his dark eyes intent and focused on her. She wondered if he was somehow able to see her sincerity and whether or not he would believe it.

"Stop your sniffling," he told her somehow kindly. Sansa nodded and he sighed before snatching the ribbon from her hand. "You really want to give this to me?" he asked again and Sansa nodded. He looked at the ribbon and then handed it back to her. She was about to protest his perceived refusal when he added with a hint of a challenge. "Then do it properly."

And it dawned on her. He was asking her to bestow her favour on him in front of the crowd right before the joust. Not in the relative anonymity of his tent but in the public, before the King and his court. Before her father. Sansa opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. He still thought she was making a jest at his expanse and thought she would back down if he pressed her far enough. He was to learn how wrong about that he was.

"Very well," she nodded curtly. "I will be sitting in the middle of the gallery. Do not be late, my lord."

She turned around and walked out of his tent, her head held high. She was fully within her rights to do this. There was nothing wrong or improper about this. It was the lady's prerogative to choose her champion and she chose him. She couldn't give her favour to her betrothed so she would do the next best thing and give it to her betrothed's protector. It was her undisputable right and anyone who would look down at her for this knew nothing about courtesy.

Sansa kept repeating those words to herself as she settled down to wait for the beginning of the joust. Her father arrived shortly before it started, looking more cheerful than earlier that morning. Sansa was glad even if she wondered how he would react to the scene that would shortly follow as the trumpets blared and the Hound, Sandor Clegane, rode out. He had yet to drop his visor and she felt his eyes settle on her. His angry eyes, challenging her to back down. Sansa stood up, the noise around her fading to the background as she stepped to the railing. The Hound was too far for her to see his face but she imagined the surprise passing across his features as if he was right in front of her.

And then he nudged his horse down the lists towards her and Sansa grasped the ribbon tightly, reminding herself this was all her idea and there was nothing wrong with it. He deserved to win and he deserved her favour. She would show him she was more than a little talking bird. And then there was no more time to think as the Hound stopped his horse before her, bowing his head slightly.

"Lady Sansa," he greeted mockingly and Sansa gave him her best court smile.

"My lord," she returned and showed him the ribbon. "May I?" she asked and he extended his arm to her so she could tie it in place. "Thank you for accepting my favour," she spoke as she tightened the bow. "I am sure you will win," she added sincerely and she could almost imagine that he looked at her with gratitude before he dropped his visor and rode off to face off against Ser Jaime Lannister.

Sansa herself dropped down into her chair, more than aware of all the stares the scene had drawn. She only looked at her father who was regarding her with a mix of surprise, curiousity and trepidation.

"He deserves to win," she said quietly and her father nodded before returning his attention to the joust. Sansa wasn't so naive as to think this was over but her father was a good man and once she explained her reasoning to him, she was sure he would understand and approve. For now, she would watch and cheer for her champion.

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**A/N:** The answer to the aforementioned prompt went like this:

The whole gallery going quiet made Ned raise his head and he could only stare uncomprehendingly as Sandor Clegane brought his horse to a stop in front of Sansa who leaned over to tie a ribbon around his forearm, blushing prettily all the while.

"Thank you for accepting my favour," she was saying, seemingly oblivious to all the stares she was drawing, "I am sure you will win."

Clegane merely nodded at her, drew his visor down and rode off to the lists where Jaime Lannister was already waiting for their joust to begin while Sansa kept her eyes on her champion; _and to think I have worried over the Tyrell boy's attention,_ Ned thought ruefully to himself.


End file.
